


Friend or Foe or.....(Lover)

by TonyBabyStark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Peter Parker, Civil War Team Iron Man, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Tony, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, No bashing (though there will be descrimination), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Natasha Romanov, Slight OOC, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Team Cap is full of shit, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, not team Cap friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonyBabyStark/pseuds/TonyBabyStark
Summary: Natasha Romanoff can always tell friend from foe.Instinctively.Whether it was by the subjects amicable behaviour or one's persona, she could conclude sufficiently. She was always precise in her examinations. All except one certain case. A hopeless one if you were to ask her. A certain narcissistic genius always seemed to be too quick for her to analyse properly. Facial expressions contorting from witty to charming to undecipherable, all in the span of seconds.Though he was plagued with a cloud of baggage.It was exasperating to say the least. But she never admitted to the growing affinity for him and his mechanisms. She denied it, disregarded it and tossed it right in the bin, rather Tony's face.After all, denial isn't just a river in Egypt.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 80





	1. Not Recommended

❝Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.❞

\- Bruce Lee  
\--------------------  
Iron Man: Yes

Tony Stark: ...... _Not Recommended_

Typing those words down, they hadn't seemed significant enough for her to RE-evaluate her whole report. They were just mere, huddled up emotions depicted in the form of words. If focused on too much, her disdain for the arrogant bastard would be legible and written all across the computer screen, contagious even.

God, he _annoyed_ her.

He was like a little child reverberating of unlimited and overwhelming energy, unbearable for the people on the duty of supervision. That was an apt description to be honest. More reliable and somewhat accurate than any other bit of information she had congregated on him. She had yet to find his likes, dislikes. His fears, distastes, and what triggered him.

So far, she had only achieved the impression that he was intolerably annoying and frustrating to be around. Always boasting about his accomplishments whilst tinkering away. But he could be charming and perceptive at times. Thick alluring eyelashes contrasting hazel-honey eyes that women these days couldn't resist. He had an attractive face, she'll give him that, it regularly drove women mad, rendered them practically begging on their knees. She had seen it first hand. With secretaries, businesswomen, models and even ordinary people rallying on the streets of New York. She presumed that it was a common reaction he was accustomed to by now. But it didn't work on her, rather annoyed her further. She had already attempted to complain to the director in hopes to get reassigned with another subject, but to no avail.

"Stark's ego is...gargantuan, even for me. I trust you Romanoff, for you are the only agent reliable enough to obtain every bit of Intel we need about him. What he eats, how he sleeps and what he finds appealing, you are going to crack and find it out. Stark consults us, double checks every weapon we bring in and funds us to an extent. It is mandatory to know whether he is trusting and committed, this is vital and more than apparent. So stop complaining, and don't let me down, Agent. You are dismissed."

\---------------------------------------------------------  
End of Chapter


	2. Home

❝Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.❞

\- Anais Nin  
\------------------  
The click-clacking rhythm of her heels contacting the pavement below resonated through the eerily silent room. Many people sparing her luscious glances of want and perceiving her with hungry eyes before snapping back to their topic at hand.

" _Идиоты_ ," She curses under her breath, brandishing an unimpressed smirk. Walking over to the table of delegates representing various different bodies, she catches sight of the achingly familiar dark hair. Chestnut hair sheen and styled to perfection, the owner holding heavy gazes of many people in the room. Hands swaying to his sides, mouth moving in sync with the sway of his arms, demeanour smart and Composed as usual. He represents the spitting image of a formidable and powerful businessman. A king even. She approaches silently, each step balanced and hushed, resorting in the far corner of the spacious room, preferring the shadows rather than the radiance of the office.

Simultaneously, the moment she resides in her chosen temporary-home, people around the room snort and release strained chuckles at a supposedly funny joke that Tony has probably voiced. She rolls her eyes, though oblivious to the pun. Eyes trailing onto Ross.

"Do you realise how important this meeting is, _Stark_?" Ross reprimands with spite, blood slowly roving up to the depths of his collar, neck altering to a light shade of red. She looks intently as Tony makes a quip that only further infuriates the on-edge general.

"How rude of me, am I stealing your spotlight? Already toasting your regrets on ever inviting me?" She remains nonchalant, gawking around the room as the chuckles quiet down, apprehensively eyeing Ross in her peripheral as he emotes wildly.

"You have said what you wanted to. Now, this meeting is dismissed and by Monday morning, I expect each an every one of you representatives to infill me on your personal approaches on the matter, got it?" Silent murmurs of approval and nodding fill the room, democrats getting up to salvage their necessities before seeping out and through the doors. Ross eyes Tony warily, murmuring something to him that she doesn't quite decipher- most likely a threat- before assembling his things and swiftly exiting the room with a loud bang as the noise of the door shutting reverberates the room.

Her gaze lingers on the door for a few seconds, pondering, before turning back to Tony. He watches her like a hawk, leaning his back on the rim of the table, dashes on his forehead prominent in thought.

"You heard from Steve?" He asks, eyes depicting an unreadable emotion for a brief moment. She huffs a breath to emphasise her exertion and heavily sits on one of the many chairs that decorate the office, facing forward Tony. "No," she breaths, "Not since a week ago that is."

Tony nods his head, making his way to tentatively take a seat a few seats away from her, still faced in front of her. She can't help but notice the dark bags under his eyes and the prominent lines on his forehead that compliment his look.

Either lack of sleep or reoccurring nightmares. Knowing Tony, both.

"Hey," she asks, voice unconventionally soft for her liking, "you okay?" Her silence was an indication for him to answer. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to be trafficked through the interjecting lump in his throat, before clasping it shut firmly.

Her eyes linger on his own hazel-brown pelvises, lured in a trance that seems to be continuing till infinity. Morphing out any noise into distant and disregarded background humming. Absorbed in the thick black eyelashes decorating his fragile and tender eyes, lines of exertion visible even from the distance they share. Both figuratively and literally.

He looked Tired. Exhausted even. Come to think of it, he was the only person left. The last broken piece in the complex puzzle she calls family. Both of them, battling their inner demons that threaten to unravel and break them, brewing more wicked methods to torment their dreams and motives, altering their chosen paths into tentative baby steps. His fears were compatible to her own, maybe even worse.

She watches as his eyes wander around the room, seeming as if he is perceiving it properly for the first time, taking in the detail of every curve and crevice, every nook and corner of the four walled room they reside in before inclining his eyes towards hers. His eyes speak volumes. He furrows his brows, an endearing crease forming between both his brows as he ponders in pensive thought about how she embellishes the dull office and offers him the only semblance of comfort and feeling of rationality. A dull whisper unravelling itself to the exterior surface of his ears whispering Home. His stabilised rock.

She is his home. Always has been.

It's almost unbelievable how far they both have fought in the roles they were spontaneously handed. How they endeavour beyond and above to reach people's standards. How the universe keeps demanding more and more, never compensating for their good deeds and misfortunes.

A heavy silence emanates in the air, thick with worries of the future rather than the present. She uncomfortably hauls herself up after the silence becomes unbearable to even breathe in, slowly making her way beside Tony and resting her hand on his tense and alert shoulder. It takes him a while before he replies, a subtle window into how he really feels,

" _Always_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to announce something that I feel the urge to voice, if you don't agree with the plot, the ships or the choices of the characters, please don't comment anything disrespectful and offensive. I don't personally ship TonyNat excessively, but they are rubbing of on me.  
> On a good note:  
> Updates will be posted in the span of a week, between each chapter, and any ideas you guys brew, feel free to comment.  
> What do you wish this book entail?  
> I haven't planned the future of this book thoroughly at the moment but I am clear on what the next chapter should entail.  
> P.s if you haven't already realised, this isn't going to follow or unfold in sync with what actually happens in the MCU. Neither are any of the scenes that we saw. I'll add my own.
> 
> This chapter was initially set in IM2 and now it's set during Civil War


	3. Watch Your Back

❝Love involves a peculiar unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding.❞

— Diane Arbus  
\-------------------------  
"We played this wrong." She mutters, adamant on her announcement, but mostly incredulous by Tony's lack of rational approach. Wasn't he the supposed genius here? Why couldn't he comprehend their situation and accept that they did wrong and misjudged?

An all too audible scoff resonates in the air as Tony briefly shakes his head, " _We_? Boy. It must be hard to shake the whole double agent thing, huh? Sticks in the DNA."

That _hurt._

Simple words yet they felt corrosive when relayed, grating the surface of her aching organ. 

But they weren't true, she loved both the men. 

Considered Steve as a brother who was trapped in a situation that he really didn't want to be stuck in and Tony as a tormented friend.

She loved Tony as she loved Steve  
(though her mind screeched at her and disagreed about the comparison) maybe even more.))

He was a man that came with loads of baggage. A riddle that tantalised her attempts at solving it, one she failed constantly to triumph at and un-riddle. But beneath that all too compatible baggage was a man, a good one. One that cares about the people surrounding and circuiting around him, assigns himself as their supervisor, offering them all his love in the form of weapons, gadgets, money and shelter. 

A man that is too caught up in other's problems to fend his own.

But that didn't vanish the overwhelming need to hurt him. A plea to make him suffer her hurt, painting her in bruises and freshly unravelled wounds. Controlling her, restraining her spiral of thought and exclusively bringing forth the most cruellest of words. Only meant to deal damage and coerce those who advocated against her. Articulated in the form of venomous remarks.

"Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for _one_ god damn second?"  
From the edge of her eyes, she could see him recoil vaguely, clenching his jaw tight and breathing heavily.

There it was. The hurt so plainly flowing in his veins, undergoing what she had been through at his previous remark. He licks his lips, feeling how parched his mouth has become from the dispute.

Gaze now facing her and seeing hers on him, the expanding fire to affect her diffused slightly eternally. The former feeling of anger seeping out the crevices of his heart, replaced with realisation in its stead. Her ethereal red locks flowed freely hovering by her shoulders, complimenting the beautiful structure of her feminine face and merely seizing his attention and knocking breath away. 

He had to will his face away from her unnaturally gorgeous mien, going for a more levelheaded and mature response.

"T'Challa told Ross what you did, so, they're coming for you." She gaped at him, bewildered. Still looking at his turned head, burning holes into his neck.

"I'm not the one who needs to watch their back." With the wounding insinuation looming in the air, she turned around and hastily began making her exit. Was she misinterpreting this or was he finally showing his real appearance. Surfacing his true colours and conclusively allowing her to come to a proper conclusion on the great Tony Stark.

Turning to look at her receding form, he bit hard on his inner lip, tasting the familiar and acquainted metallic taste of blood. She was leaving. He knew that look on her face, the one that showed her finality on her chosen decision.

_Don't say anything you can't take back._

He didn't know what to do, what to say, how to fix this mess. The one that he had dragged upon them yet again. She was his rock. He needed her like the air he breathed. The only remaining anchor left to drag him back from the darkest pits of his tormented mind.

Because everyone that he once considered family left him. Disregarded his desperate pleas for help and tossed him like a hackneyed piece of clothing.

But now it was her that was leaving. The final block in his struggling at maintaining balance game of Jenga. The only piece, if moved, would shatter him and leave him plummeting to the ground, floundering in his own self-hatred.

He always drove people away, giving them multiple reasons to distance themselves from him. Carrying this toxic aura that spread like a virus, constricting the lungs of all nearby hosts. He isn't a good person, never was. It's in his nature to be the opposite, in his DNA.

But he thought that she could see past that snarky facade. The one he puts on oh so often as a convenient shield and a layer of fabricated protection. A feigned sense of security to remedy his paranoia.

_Don't say anything you can't take back._

She's there. Retreating. He still has time to fix this and win her back, it was now or never. He'd be damned if he let his stubbornness and toxic persona ruin his only piece of hope and chance at normality.

"Nat." He choked, voice cascading a mixture of emotions, devoid of any spite. Breaking slightly but face remaining stoic.

The word spoke volumes, like a megaphone in a room of huddled misfits, hurling a desperate cry for help, an invitation to accept her continuously offered help. To admit that he is soluble. That he is fathomable and he'll allow her to penetrate through his thick skin, peer into his distressed mind and help him. 

Sparing the responsibility of completing it himself.

Whether the message ((plea)) was heard or not, it didn't matter. She was a stark blob in the distance now, departing away and morphing into other people. Becoming a tiny speck only visible to the transparent of eyes before completely disappearing. There was a slight interval of shock, a moment for him to orientate his hurling thoughts, comfort his panicked breath. 

His body was numb, was that normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was dramatic.
> 
> Was I pissed off whilst watching this scene initially? Yes.
> 
> Will I fix this? (((and my endgame depression) idc if it has been one year))) Abso-Fricking-lutely.
> 
> As you guys can tell, this was the scene before the siberian scene where my parents argued and...it led to Nat leaving him. But hey, this is a fanfiction, meaning that it's my universe and under my complete control.
> 
> *MWAHAHAH*
> 
> See ya.


	4. If the world was ending

❝Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.❞

— The Princess Bride  
\-----------------------------------  
Hours turned to weeks, weeks turned to months.

It was another dull day at the compound, like every other day. A repetitive cycle that he'd never get adjusted to. The building was ghosted by the substantial absence of its former residents.

The corridors echoed with an unsettling silence, chirping like crickets in the late hours of night. 

News about the Siberian fiasco had spread like wildfire- a huge outbreak amongst the world. It was a viral subject- one which the news seemed to be excessively interested in.  
Intellectuals started changing from biased mindsets to more open minded and accepting, proving to be what they exactly resented and argued against, hypocrites. People were more willing to take a look through his eyes too, forging a more sophisticated opinion. Protesters stopped protesting. Resorting to brewing peculiar theories about what originated the 'civil war.' They continued in an unending pattern, no one was their to contradict anything nor to divulge, so they continued with their miraculous rumours.

Rhodey had just finished his weekly session of physical therapy. Constantly pushing his crippled body to his utmost strength in effort to walk again, but the stakes were low and the odds looked in no ones favour. Always huffing and sweating of over stimulation after every little session, body overworked for his current predicament.

Rhodey's struggle with walking and adjusting to his new braces only added to the weight on his shoulders.  
The weight of carrying the title of the Avengers and pleasing the world, leaving little to no room to fend his own wounds.

The past significantly contributed to his sleep deprived frame.

If ever he tried to think about the past, he'd find himself in that terrifying, skin crawling bunker again. Reliving how his suit jarred with each blow, how the titanium metal pressed onto his soft skin and sent pain searing in his sternum, slowly destroying his sense of security along with his own dignity.

He'd be lying if he said he gave it his all. 

He didn't want to fight Rogers, never dreamed of it. It was a terrible misfortune. They were naive enough to play directly in the game Zemo had constructed for a particular motive. Embracing the roles of their assigned puppets and following Zemo's plot to fruition.

Now that he thinks of it with a more rational mindset, devoid of dismay and careering hurt, Bucky Barnes was as broken as he was. Paralleling his struggles in life. The shame of attacking another victim was monumental, but could you really blame him? It was Rogers who had fucked up his game of captaincy.

Steve _'sometimes my teammates don't tell me things'_ Rogers had got the wrong impression. Claiming the responsibility of informing Tony about his _parents'_ murder and using his precious 2 years worth of time to confirm of his knowledge when an enemy, _a hydra agent_ , bet him to it. 

The irony, almost poetic. Steve Rogers, an American icon disagreeing with the wishes of America. Steve truthful and loyal Rogers, stabbing a teammate ((friend)) in the back whilst lying to his face and beating him to the ground after it.

But hey, bygones be bygones.

Ste- Rogers used to be his childhood hero. The one he had a poster lying vacated on his bedroom floor at the early age of 9. Talking to him in times of distress, spilling his heart out to a motionless layer of tree, wishing to grow into a great man like him.

How the tables have turned.

His former hero, putting his all into each brute blow. And finally, embedding that shield through the arc reactor, shattering his heart along with it.

Abruptly changing his direction of thought, he pushes the most haunting memories into the recess of his mind, placing them in an impenetrable box and swallowing the key in his heart. 

He'll carry the key and the box till his grave. 

Until then, he'll put on his famous mask. A facade of feigned happiness and a constant smile. With the monsters of his nightmare behind the coating- a mixture of despair and betrayal too. The idea of counselling or any method of help sounded foreign to him. 

It had been 5 whole months since Natasha had disappeared off the face of the Earth. 

_"I'm not the one who needs to watch their back."_

She was right. He really did need to watch his back. Guard it from people who branded themselves as his friends. Friends who left as soon as they arrived. Friends who tossed his heart like a weightless shuttlecock, hitting it with no mercy and laughing at his efforts of steadying.

Walking past Rhodey's room, where snoring could be hear, he manoeuvred past the furniture in the empty lounge room and leisurely walked his way to the balcony. The lush green landscape was a sight to die for. It seeped the uneasiness from his figure and restored some aspect of peace into the eerily hushed compound. From where he stood, the sun rested above the horizon, reflecting a beautiful twilight sky. 

He wrapped his hands around the cold banister, breathing out a sigh of today's stress. 

Just as he allowed himself a hasty second of pristine relaxation, his phone buzzed in his pants pocket, lighting up the compartment and sending vibrations wandering around his thigh. He ignored the first time it rang, and the second time and three times after that. 

He only-only swiped the green panel and picked the phone up in concern for Rhodey. He didn't want to wake him only minutes after he had finally fought the battle of sleep and kissed consciousness goodbye.

"Hello?"

" _Stark,_ " Ross growled, "does it not occur to your mind that i might have something of worth to tell you-" tony yanked the phone away from his ear, waiting out for the ringing in his ear to recede before letting Ross continue his rant.

"Get to the point, Ross." Tony interjected after Ross blabbered on, voice grating with annoyance and a moody tilt to it that manifested that he wasn't up for any bullshit.

"Someone having a rough day? Too bad this isn't going to help." Tony could practically sense the bastard's sneer, enjoying every bit of Tony's rare demonstration of a mood.

"My agents were scattering the area for any signs of activity- because we had been receiving heat signatures- you won't believe who we caught." He pauses, adding a dramatic affect as Tony's gut drips in a new found ominous feeling, a sense of foreboding that makes him nauseous and dizzy with an overdose of emotions.

"We found Romanoff."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reality is about to hit.
> 
> Just wanted to clarify, this story isn't going to go too into depth about the council and the aftermath of civil war, but i'm not omitting it completely though.
> 
> This is more about conflict and the more human parts of the avenger's movies that we rarely got to see. It's Tony/Nat centric, and if that's not your jazz, leave please.


	5. Regrets

❝Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.❞

\- Kalil Gibran  
\---------------------  
She had been very productive (useless) in her time concealed from the world.

Fleeing from towns to cites she's never heard of and finally, when there's too much suspicion for her liking, countries. 

But however much distance she shares between herself and her previous haven, she always finds herself circuiting around the distinguished city of New York. Like an invisible force- a magnet- pulling her close and luring her into an impenetrable leash.

All she wants to do is rest, be given a while to arrange her thoughts, think about the future and what it beholds, foresee. To be given an agenda. 

But all her time absent, she was fleeing the agents on her back, avoiding hydra and any sticky business with other covert organisations. 

Going completely MIA.

She wanted to avoid it all, forget what she had been taught all her life- **dehumanise, destabilise, antagonise - offer an easy solution - always blood.** She wanted to wash the red out of her gargantuan ledger. Live a normal, well, relatively normal life.

But she was restless, redundant even. 

She was _alone._

Which was quite normal for her, but this time was different. She had gotten too close to the avengers, too used to their presence. She was accustomed to having an avenger or a friend by her side, having a second pair of eyes to watch behind her back, to alert her of any contingencies she hadn't resolved or thought of.

But everywhere she went, it was cold, different. 

The atmosphere had a way of changing when she was ever reminded of her past, a painful nostalgic effect. She got really sentimental at times, re-evaluating her previous choices. Placing the timeline of these past few months in her head, trying to think where everything went wrong, how she could get her family back. Uniting unsuitable pieces together, trying to fit them and repeating the steps all over again.

Guided by those thoughts, she always found her way circuiting around the compound, being cautious not to trigger any alarms or brew speculations.

Her intuition was her mentor, the captain of her sinking ship. Telling apart the good faces from the bad. Hiding in the shadows as the days went on, trying to catch a glimpse of something, or rather, _someone_.

But she had never seen _him._

He never left the building, never turned the lights on at night, never made any noise. And it drove her more desperate. She wanted to see him again, wanted to see her only remaining friend (betrayed friend that is), to tell him that she wanted to retract all the bad things- horrible things she had ever said to him. Tell him that her reflection on him wasn't true, that she was controlled by her inner group of demons. She regretted it all, that she was.... _sorry._

Sorry for the 'civil war' fiasco. Sorry for Siberia and not being present when he was crying out in pain, needing an extra shoulder to rest on. ((She was livid when she had first heard about the incident whilst drinking coffee in a deserted cafe)) 

And sorry for taking him for granted.

He had worked so _hard_. She could see it now.

To keep the avengers together, to put an end to the fighting, and in that permanent fatigue- also doing the hefty job of being a friend. 

And what had she done? Spat on his face. In her misplaced entitlement, she gave him only passive aggressive rage. She withdrew to punish him, wound him and she herself became self-absorbed, leaving him in his time of need.

And now he's gone, locked in the building she stares at all day and only has the impression of hate. The impression that everyone loathes him, hates his guts, has no one to tell him otherwise. To appreciate him instead of depreciate, offer him acceptance and not demands, respect him and never condemnation. 

She knows that Tony is on the brink of collapsing, that he is alone- and all she can do is wish, wish that someone is there for him, someone to treat him the way he deserves to be treated. She wishes that he were by her side as she ventures about the world, that she could make amends, reconciliations. To tell him that she understands and that she is sorry, really sorry.

She just misses him.

And that's where the problem was.

She also missed all her former teammates, but in comparison to Tony, that was a whole different situation. She had even done the supplementary job of researching about it. The great black widow, researching about her feelings- her yearning for a friend. Everywhere on the internet, she had gotten one answer. An infantile word, one that must have been invented by older folks, the ones with an interest in belittling young attraction. Natasha denied it, laughed at it and briefly shut down her research 'project'. 

It was in the early hours of the day when she found herself wandering the streets of upstate New York. She was making her way to stand nearby the bordering land of the compound, where green vegetation surrounded the block of land. It was still relatively dark, the walls of the building curling away coldly into the fading darkness of the sky, the light from the few lamps nearby showed the windows shimmering a reflecting light. 

The skin on her back crawled, her senses overwhelmed as an ominous breeze swept leaves that spread on the pavement. Her skin shuddered when she looked down, the light reflected multiple shadows beside hers, red dots blending into the shadows like a painting gone horribly wrong. 

_Shit._

Men clad in black began shouting, demanding she come silently or they wouldn't hesitate to place bullets between her eyes. There were about 30 of them when she obliged and turned to face them, hands up beside her head, her mind sustaining it's unproductive buzz as she attempted to figure a way out of this predicament. Should she bolt backwards...up there, to the forest where the paths run in every direction- the men in black clothes attacked.

She puts down a good half before being drugged with a syringe.

Her last hazy memory before complete blackness overcame was of a person-the one who had successfully narcotised her- speaking something in his intercom. Her mind deciphered only half of the chatter before her eyesight dwindled and consciousness slipped out of her grasp, darkness swallowing her.

"Yes, it's her Sir. i'm positive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sort of a filler chapter, more of Natasha's perspective and thoughts.


	6. Inferno

❝Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. ❞

-Semisonic  
\-------------------  
The nausea swirls unrestrained in his empty stomach. He hadn't eaten the whole day, going straight to the address Ross had given him.

When arrived at the supposed address, he was welcomed by a huge block of land containing rows upon rows of abandoned looking buildings presenting an eerie ensemble. Each building galloped up the clouds and had entire floors dedicated to cells. It was unnerving to say the least. How a prick like Ross could stay here, he didn't know. As he made his way towards where the room- cell- the person at the front had instructed him to go to, his head swam with half-formed sentences. His weak heart felt as if all the blood had been replaced with tar, as it struggled to keep a steady beat. 

His melancholy mood hung over him like a black cloud, raining his personal sorrow down on him wherever he went, following through the many rows of stairs, through the many doors and corridors. Even the colours of the spring day were drab to him now, and the birdsong like so much noise on a child's glockenspiel, grating his nerves. 

He met Ross in a large, spacious room. It had dark, dull walls with paint chipping of the wallpaper, trying to escape. Many columns of laptops, computers and high tech objects decorated the room's interior. He spared a vain look over them, noticing the number of people going about with their business.

" _Stark_. Looks like you took your precious time to get here." Ross rounds him in a desolate corner, out of earshot. 

"Get to it Ross." He demands, nerves spreading like cobwebs in the pit of his stomach.

"My men caught her wandering around in range of the compound. She injured many of them- hell, she put some in the infirmary, but they put her down and brought her in." He gestures to the door on the far end of the room, a metal door probably weighing twice his weight.

"I talked to the council, discussed her situation and how she broke the law by helping the controversial fugitives. They are talking about her punishment right now, displaying all her criminal records- at least those that they can find- and judging it of by that." Ross sighs, rubbing the bridge of his slimy nose.

"I'm trying to prejudice the council, offering them all the reasons they should imprison her, but i doubt the odds are in my favour, those imbeciles can't see past their power." 

Tony just nods through all of it. Mind wandering back to the day Natasha deserted him, not once looking back to check on him. Not even after Siberia.

Not when his world was on the brink of collapsing, when his world was ending.

When she first left, he would describe his heartache like an insatiable fire that burnt all the remaining oxygen in his body, leaving him listless and empty. But now, walking towards her cell, alone as Ross eyes him though the security cameras, it is more like a thin layer of ice, cooling his insides, a gentle reminder of the pain that came before and a warning not to stoke that fire again. To play it safe and not fall for her- or his other teammate's (friends)- manipulative tactics. 

Because he doesn't think his weak heart can survive another inferno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It pains me like a bitch to write Tony whump


	7. Subtle window

❝There are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to be sad among others, and those who prefer to be sad alone.❞

\- Nicole Krauss

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When she first catches a glimpse of Tony slipping past the titanium doors, she opens her mouth to say something, to greet him, but nothing comes out. Its like all the words at the tip of her tongue, the ones she had practised so many times, flooded back to the recesses of her mind, staying glued and motionless.

He brandishes a black leather jacket- achingly familiar to the one he wore the last time she saw him- and navy jeans.

His naturally rosy skin- the one she had grown so confidential with- has sunken in tone to something so lifeless and pale. It scares her just to look at him, catches her breath. What was once a healthy face, chiselled and renown as one of the world's most handsome amongst men, is now more machine than man.

His eyes wander around, discerning the four walled room (cell). He shuts the door closed, standing away from her, not daring to inch closer into her comfort zone.

Not once does he look at her.

She sits propped on the bed, feet dangling of the edge, staring as he situates his figure- shifting on the corner of the wall, leaning on it for balance. He sucks himself into a deeper place to cope, to avoid being exposed to the dark hues of the room. All she can do is watch him. Watch as he stares off into the distance, not once acknowledging her presence.

In the void of sound, the burden of their imminent conversation was laid bare, taunting their silence.

"Romanoff," he voices, deceptively indifferent. 

"Tony-" Though he interjects her before she can finish, eyes casting intensely at his shoes as he speaks.

"Where were you?" Though his voice is the normal, the same can't be said for his tone. So lifeless and aloof.

She doesn't want to answer, though. She can't, knowing that he'd most likely be reporting it back to Ross, which she doesn't want to risk.

"Does it matter?" No spite behind the words, just uneasiness.

Though it hits a cord in him. Her breath hitches as he looks at her, really looks at her. Eyes casting as the grimness of clouds on a forbidding winter day.

"Would I be asking if it didn't?"

Her face looks the same to him. Same mahogany-red hair. Same round, emerald green eyes, burning into him with little display of emotion. Carrying comfort- involuntarily. A little pain ebbs at the ethereal sight of her, a sight he thought he'd pushed into the deepest pits of hell. But the betrayal and hurt slowly crawls back into him and the pain multiplies. He wants to flee. To forget everything he ever had with any of them.

His gaze snaps away as soon as it lands, a nagging pain sitting in his gut like scorched charcoal fading black to the burning fire. She catches his hesitation, the challenge in merely looking at her. The way he only spares her small glances and then wills his eyes away from her as if he can't stand looking at her, as if the negligible sight of her is contagious.

"Your pardon is being discussed with the council," he mutters, after a heavy break, "the delegates think you deserve a chance to explain yourself, convey your reasoning. My best guess is that they'll have you on a year of house arrest." She nods in indication that she is listening to his words, looking perceptively at him as he carries on.

"Alternatively, they'll place you somewhere similar to the raft or, in your case, a highly secured prison- and if you're lucky, maybe there will be a window."

She looks at him, gets lost in his distant chocolate-brown eyes, once brimming with energy of 100 suns. She knows the consequences, Ross had already notified her the second her phased eyes had slipped open.

"Which one of those options do you think I deserve? She asks, noticing the way his lips line in a perfect representation of a 180 degrees angle.

"Does it matter?" There's a little heat behind his words, a smouldering intensity and a subtle- very subtle- window into his pain. Natasha recoils eternally, doing a good job in not showing it outwardly.

He was different. So cold.

She watches as his gaze falters, changing to his jeans. He pats his pant's pocket, rummaging for something, getting out a strange watch-like object and tapping a pattern, which Natasha doesn't catch, on the small screen.

"And...Just like that." He taps one last button and looks down at her, licking his plump lips.

"We have an estimate of... 5 minutes to talk. I've locked the door, the security screens are off and the room is soundproofed inside-out." He says, discerning the object back in his pocket.

"Tony-"

"5 minutes to utilise, not to waste."  
Tony lifts his finger, hushing her immediately.

"Where were you Nat? You need to tell me, this is for your case," he trails off, "if you ever want to set foot outside again and not be trashed in a prison, I suggest you talk."

Natasha gapes at him, marvelling at his offering of aid. Though, slowly getting agitated.

"Speak the truth, _please_ , for once."

An open insinuation to her past.

Tony compensates her confused face with an earnest look, eyes shining with sincerity and face settling on a fake smile. A smile to hide his pain from her, to show her some semblance of sincerity. However the pain is becoming too unbearable to conceal. It hurts his face now to even fake a smile. Feels foreign to him.

But she doesn't want to talk. She is too cautious about who'll know and who wont, even if its a simple question.

"Tony, no, I can't-" he abruptly cuts her off, displaying his concealed pain in the form of weary phrases.

"Of course you can't, you never can. God damn it, Nat. God _fucking_ damn it."

He edges closer towards her, standing near the foot of the bed, rubbing his temple.

There was something in that sudden yell, a signal of pain behind it. Huddled emotions peaking out. Natasha just watched. She watches Tony's eyes. Then she knew. The annoyance was nothing but a shield for his suffering, like a worn out soldier randomly throwing grenades, scared for his life, lonely, desperate.

He looks desperate, alone, and _tired_.

It's almost chilling at how much she can read him just from a yell. She tries not to think about how he actually feels, without the thick layer.

"I-I try, I tried _so_ hard, so _fucking_ hard."

His exhales are haste, audible even from where she sits.

His emotions seep out in his choice of words and it hurts to hear them, hurts to read them for what they are.

Shakes her to the core knowing that she contributed to it.

She senses that something inside of him is aching, floundering in pain, troubling him.

Because she has experienced it too.

Yet also there is so much goodness there too, bravery, tenacity. She is looking at him in a new light, seeing the true beauty to him as he silently breaks, so _human._

Unlike herself.

She was wrong, which was pretty normal when reading Tony, he wasn't broken, he was _breaking_. On the brink of closing down.

"I know you did, Tony." She counters, but in the moment, he can't meet her eye. He just tsks and mutters an 'of course you know.' 

Hauling herself up off the bed, she stalks near him, warily calculating each step. She watches him as he massages his temple, not focusing as she approaches him.

She parts a few centimetres in distance from him, scanning Tony's face for a reaction. The silence hangs in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. She expects him to scream at her, tell her he hates her, hates her guts. Expects him to yell until his voice goes raw, until he uses his last particle of sound But what she doesn't expect is for him to laugh- hysterically.

The hollow silence, only filled with Tony's low snickers- now a grimace- gnawed at her insides, forming an irresistible impulse to touch him, comfort him, assure him.

So she does.

She reaches out and catches his shaking body in a hug, feels and chooses to ignore the tenseness in his body. She rests her chin on his shoulder, crossing her arms tentatively around his torso. After a few silent seconds of heavy breathing, he gives in and practically melts into the hug, hastily wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close into his honey and oil scented body, as she gently rubs his back.

The silence screaming with unvoiced words, words their coward mouths choose to shy from.

He clings onto her like she is going to disappear again- like she is going to disappear off the face of the earth and kiss the world goodbye.

Like she's going to leave him again. Because, who doesn't?

He relishes in the warmth of the hug, a kind gesture, a gesture he hasn't felt in _years._

"I went to Russia for a few months," she breaths in the sweet scent of his cologne, shutting her eyes, "I returned to America only a few weeks ago, hiding around from organisations and Ross' men."

Her body vibrates as he hums, resting his head on her shoulder and clinging firmly.

"Thank you, _agent_."

Back to civility and professionalism.

As if they hadn't just shared a moment of affability.

He breathes her in before finally parting the hug, immediately distancing and stalking for the door as he does.

Natasha feels the absence as a cold wind, wishing she could keep him wrapped around her like a well worn sweater for hours, away from the cruel world.

"10 seconds before Ross comes barging in," he huffs, talking to no one in particular.

Natasha just nods- disregarding the fact that he can't see her- and takes that as a sign to give him space, allow him to open the door and wipe away the memories of their time spent. A prologue of amicable geniality, followed by an epilogue of longing pain for her friend.

A gaping void spewing of unuttered words.

Words that she fears.

Words for children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of y'all might perceive this as unrealistic and a bunch of rubbish, but I want to make clear that a friend, no matter how big of a 'crime' they commit, the yearning for them doesn't disappear (even if you move on from them)  
> -  
> They both do seem a bit ooc, but I'll try my best to change that.


	8. One building, 11 rooms, 6 suits, 4 walls, 2 windows and one guy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this special chapter! Please take a quick look at my friend Orbit's story, she's new to ao3. She motivates me to keep writing and proof-reads my chapters, deserves a lot of recognition! Her account: Orbit_you

❝Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.❞

\- Robert A.

\----------

Two months later and Natasha's case had been sent through and officially pardoned, though not entirely absolved.

Condemnation scarcely a year of house arrest, with the affirmation of being prolonged.

_"The council has come to a unanimous decision. They say that she should be put to the consequence of house arrest- in one of the most secure places in New York as opposed to the ordinary treatments, with the only thing remaining that can put her down if she tries to escape or defy the law. They've decided to transport her to the Avengers' compound, with you as an overseer.''_

_"Why don't you take her to one of your facilities?"_

_"Because the council trusts you, stark. Do as your told."_

_"Okay. When is she being.... brought in?"_

_"She's being transferred on Monday morning. There will be guards watching her for a week- mostly security purposes- and then they'll leave you both be. But if she makes a wrong move, dares cross a line, they'll be forced to put her down."_

_"You’re going to kill Romanoff?"_

_"The dice are in her hands. We're just doing what deems necessary, thus, if she makes a wrong roll."_

_"I won't allow her, sir."_

_"good."_

That was a week ago.

Natasha had been living alongside him for four days now, both rarely leaving their rooms.

When she first arrived at the compound, it was desolate. As if the colour had seeped out of every wall and surface, replaced with a depressing after paint of nostalgia.

Tony wasn't there to greet her, which was...not surprising (deflating)

Apparently, Rhodey wasn't present to address her either since he went to visit his mother, who lived on the other end of the country. Hence, the emptiness.

The guards, who were men clad in expensive designer suits, didn't leave her alone for the first day. Following after her like a second shadow, armed heavily and gun at the ready.

There were cameras embedded thoroughly everywhere she went. The kitchen, the bathroom. Hell, even the toilet. The armed men rounded her door every morning, checking her room for any signs of escape, inspecting if she had precipitated havoc.

It was exasperating.

How did they _not_ expect her to go mad? Mad to the point where she could spontaneously pull her own hair out.

So, she did what she was best at, hid. She rarely left her room. Went to bed empty stomached and avoided the toilet every chance she got.

It was hard readjusting to the ghostly setting of the compound. Once upon a time, if you stood a good distance away, you would still be able to apprehend the blaring sounds of joy. The laughter on game nights, the madness on nights of parties. Thor's laughter the most noticeable amongst the onslaught of drunk people, laughing his booming laugh. And if you dared crack a lame joke, one which the demigod found amusing, he would crush you in the biggest bear hugs.

The good old days.

Nights at the compound were more complicated. In her room, when she felt the walls imploding in, constricting her lungs, she would take a visit to the training room.

Occasionally unravelled her fury on a boxing bag, manually damaging the poor sack.

But, she won't deny the fact that she would also visit just so she could hear the faint sounds of metal contacting metal. The ambiguous noise of tinkering and welding more conspicuous through the walls of the training rooms in contrast to the dense walls her own individual room possessed.

It unusually procrastinated the buzzing in her head, the soft purr of the machines. In that room, she was a hammer and the dents added up in her soul. Natasha would sometimes lay down on the training mats, occasionally accompany a blanket and a pillow, drifting away to the hazy sounds of handwork as it carried on day and night as if the human within was part of the machinery.

Natasha could think properly. The ram gb in her brain cooling down, finally able to laze.

Natasha was aware of the gospel that she was the most fortunate amongst all the other fugitives, more blessed.

And she was thankful, she really was. But it could get a bit smothering at times. An odd feeling, as if there were invisible jail bars galloping around her, the bars holding her.

Sharing one building with 11 rooms, 6 suits, 4 walls, 2 windows and one guy- who she hadn't seen since their hug (moment)) could also prove to get tedious.

The _irony_.

-

Over the course of the past few days, the temperature had fallen significantly. The arrival of rain and a northern wind made the atmosphere icy. With no split in the greyness above, a let-up risk was slim to none. Today was going to be a rainy day and that was not going to change, no matter how much anyone prayed.

Natasha stirs behind her closed eyelids, her mind ceasing profuse horrors, yanking her back to wakefulness. At first, the thick droplets of rain rendered her slightly confused, but a slow smile creeps over her face when she hears the beautiful sounds of nature, recognises it from her youth in Russia. As she uncovers her eyes, the gentle tapping of raindrops becomes more conspicuous, numbs any nervousness for the foreseeable day. She perches up, checking the nightstand drawer for the time. It read 6:00 am. Tony was probably (not) asleep by now, or so she hoped as she rolled off the bed, slipping her nighttime slippers on and stalked for the bathroom door.

She brings up a knuckle to rub the last fragment of sleep from her eyes, shrugging out of the night gown and leisurely stepping into the shower. Her toes flinch as they touch the chilled ceramic floor, curling scarcely as a shiver shoots through her body. She twists the pristine dial, releasing thousands of lukewarm drops, darkening her hair as water trickles down her back. The tenseness of her taught muscles soothe as water gradually graces her, shoulders less heavy.

By the time of her completion, its 6:40 am.

She leaves her crimson red hair to flow, clad in a big grey hoodie, two sizes too large for her frame.

Walking towards the kitchen, hoping that a certain _someone_ wasn't roaming the halls, she takes a seat on the stools around the kitchen island, looking out the expansive window as the rain cascades outside. Already feeling the soothing coldness of the breeze outside. She loved rain, it was no secret. Everything about the rain. The whispering hum as sheets of precipitation plummeted to the water-forsaken ground, the often-unanticipated flashes of lightning or the rolls of ominous thunder. She loved it all. In her view, those details were what really created a great rainy atmosphere.

Natasha brews herself a cup of coffee, reading through a magazine that laid untouched on the kitchen island, skimming through it as she wraps her fingers around the coffee cup, enjoying the heat that spreads through her hands.

And then shit happens.

The coffee cup somehow slips free from her loose grip on it, plummeting slowly to the ground like a replay in slow motion. Time seems to go on forever. And then a crash of glass on hard pristine floors resonates through the room, making her recoil in alert.

She purses her lips, wondering when her thoughts had left the world of the conscious- and how exactly her grip had loosened.

"We generally tend to _drink_ the coffee."

And that's Tony speaking, voice advancing from the doorway of the kitchen.

Her gaze travels to the owner of the voice, looks up and does a quick check out of his appearance. Yeah, scratch that, he probably hadn't slept. If those legible dark bags beneath his eyes and the visible lines of fatigue were anything to go by.

"Trust me, there are _many_ other ways to use coffee then simply drinking."  
She throws pointedly, bending down and opening the compartment containing all the cleaning equipment.

"I'm sure there are." He makes his way to the coffee machine, salvaging a cup of his own. The coffee is warm and bitter as it makes its way down the length of his throat, just the way he likes it. He can't remember functioning without coffee, his power source, recharger.

He leans back against the bench of the counter, body a bit stiff as Romanoff disposes the shattered fragments of glass into the rubbish bin, wiping the huge stain away.

Natasha takes a stand before him, mirrors his position, a new cup of coffee in her hands as she leans back on the island.

They don't talk, neither of them pushing for an awkward conversation that they really aren't prepared for. Not ready to trigger any fears.

He hadn't slept that night, again. Was awake a long time in the dark--for 24 hours, working and not working, adjusting his suit a little here and a little there. Resolving any contingency.

Because the last time he hadn't focus too much on his suit, he ended up beaten the crap out off in a Siberian bunker.

Another factor contributing to his lack of sleep was because he wasn't sure how to cease the profuse nightmares. They got worse more than they got better. No type of coffee or machine could resolve this.

He could only, _only_ , sleep when exhausted. Completely fatigued to the point where he felt the tiredness in his chest like the weight of something that weighed a ton. How he breathed and hid thoughts dragged by in slow motion, he slunk to a quiet spot and curled up. On good days he'd get three hours, on bad days one- or none.

And the night before hadn't been in his favour.

"How have the guards been? They still follow you?" Tony starts, taking discrete sips of his coffee. For a second, she thinks he is talking to no one in particular because his eyes seem to be roaming elsewhere, but the silence seems like an invitation for her to fill.

"They upped and left the day before, considering its been more than a week now."

Tony goes for another coffee, too hungover with the nightmares that demand solutions to be subtle.

"Hey." Natasha notices his weary movements, looking straight at him as he struggles to do the same. Glancing at her and back to the appealing cup of coffee in her sweaty palms.

"You okay?"

 _No_. He really is not.

She sees the wires twisting and turning through the border of his eyes, sees the way he tries for a suitable answer- one that is most likely inapt but adequate enough to not risk blowing his cover.

"Always."

She bemoans eternally, but knows he doesn't trust her enough to provide her the answer she is seeking. The answer behind his sleep deprived form.

"You're uncharacteristically non-hyper verbal, which is really unlike you."

"Yeah well, new year new me. You know the jazz," His attempted smile comes as a grimace, "where are the coffee beans, do you know where they are?" He looks back from the cupboard he had jammed his head in, rummaging for the said beans.

She inches closer to him, discreetly. Returning his gaze as he looks at her, an endearing crease forming between his eyebrows, a question written on his face.

He steps away, thinking she is navigating the lost beans, giving her space to find the beans. But she doesn't move away. Instead, leans up onto him, a small lock of hair tumbling in front of her face, resting just above her cheek, but she ignores it.

She plants a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Time stops. Tony's heart comes to a halt. An unusually odd sensation, something akin to warmth spreads through his limbs. It feels weird because women- other than his mother- usually only kiss him there for something in return, and the same feeling of reassurance doesn't flood through his body when they do so. A small kiss that expresses more than their mouths can. Expresses reassurance and promise. Promise that she is here and that she won't desert him again. Promises to be the someone that shows him what it feels to be warm and appreciated again- from the inside out, so his smile can be real and not a mask. Someone he so urgently needs.

And his mask nearly slips. _Nearly_.

She pulls away silently, tentatively. But their eyes lock, having a private conversation of their own. Her hand snakes around him, around his waist, across the counter lay the so-called coffee beans. She hands it to him, noticing his shocked stance. This man- Tony, is more fragile to her than the jar of beans in his hands. She doesn't want to hurt him again. Not now, not ever.

"Take care of yourself, Tony."

It's a whisper only meant for him.

He just nods, fumbling the jar of beans. A rosy colour sears through his cheeks. She tries to suppress a smile at the look on his face and how he turns his head to the side to avert his gaze, but the sudden rosiness of his cheeks was manifest. His usual hard skin had an obvious rosiness to it, it was an endearing (Adorable) sight.

Puppy dog eyes were staring behind her as she deposits her cup into the sink, departing swiftly from the kitchen. A small smile gracing her lips as she feels the eyes on her.

He walks back to his workshop. Grazing his fingers above the surface of his cheek- where she kissed him.

Black _freaking_ Widow kissed him on the cheek.

\--------------

"Miss Romanoff."

And that's Friday speaking, voice sounding so distant in her hazy mind. She's too tired to talk or even think, so she settles on an audible hum.

"Boss seems to be in distress. I think it would be best if someone were there with him."

A euphemism.

She springs up and rolls out of bed, fumbling on a jacket and hastily jogging down the eerily empty hallway to Tony's room. Friday directing her as she has no idea where exactly his room was.

A premonition of impending disaster soaks her insides.  
\--------------  
Alien shipments flew over the skies of New York, giant aliens leaping off of the ships, slaughtering through the few vulnerable humans in range and wreaking havoc on the streets.

An ominous drumming beat boomed as terrified screams congested the air. Buildings spiralling down to the ground, burning, detonating.

_It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream._

The dream was more of a night terror, a mixture of his gravest fears and his past experiences, all forming an ugly little world. His skin was as the surface of 100 suns. Beneath the thin skin bubbled toxins and gases, the pains of his past leaving his blood, seeking release because it feels as if he might die from the throbbing pain in his brain. He is tossing and turning, shouting, desperately trying to wake up, screaming for help, yet nobody comes.

Because no one is left to hear his cries.

To carry the burden of him.

He feels hands, aliens tearing his flesh apart, shredding him like cheese as he screams for mercy, intolerable pain coursing through his remains. There's a reverberating ringing in the air, the sounds of distressed souls and the earth's sign of fury as blood trickles down from the sky, blinding him.

And then there's a humming.

An unprecedented breeze.

A distant but audible noise, somewhere in this appalling world. He reaches for it, yearns it, following the path that the noise travels from, the humming getting louder and louder as he edges closer.

And then there are words.

Assuring murmurs.

His name.

_"Shhhh, Tony, it's just a dream, only a dream."_

He feels the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in his abdomen. Suddenly, he's thrust back into consciousness. Tony's eyes slip open as he sits up slumped and gulps in an innominate dosage of oxygen, gasping and wheezing.

There was a weight on his shoulder, a hand, helping him.

Tension stretches out on his face and limbs, mind replaying the last memory. People dying and praying for their lives, running around as the onslaught continued. And he's there too, getting his ass shredded and rendered completely useless, not able to help anyone, not of use. Disposable.

His breathing becomes more rapid, shallower. Mind buzzing with thoughts, scenarios, and he just wants them to slow- slow for a second, so he can breathe properly, but they won't. His breaths come in gasps and he feels himself blacking out, eyes rolling to the back of his head, panic striking and winning its game. His heart is hammering inside his chest, the explosion of his organ now a possibility.

"Tony, Tony slowly. Deep breaths, listen to my voice, deep breaths."

_Natasha?_

As Natasha incessantly strokes his back, his breathing slows, panic gradually receding. He shuts his eyes, trying to vanish the images from his mind, thinking of anything and everything to do so.

_1 sheep, 2 sheep, 3 sheep, 4-_

"Tony, just look at me." He did as he was told, opening his terror filled eyes and looking into her fiery green. His eyes seemed so different, softer and more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. The professional man, the one who only offers ambiguously short answers, was gone. And instead, replaced with eyes of a troubled man. A man fighting the battle of sleep and losing it to his twisted mind.

Tony bit hard on his lip, eyes battling but losing to pinpoint on their target, everywhere but on Natasha. So, she moves closer with those eyes that look so deeply into his own, with so much care, "Hey, it's me." His breathing becomes softer, the pensive look melting into a sigh of relief as the light of the moon illuminates the room, offering a calming view. His body squirms just a little as his muscles relax. Thoughts calming and arranging themselves, properly and neatly- well, neat enough for him.

He stares her down, finding comfort in her zoomed-up eyes. He begins to notice- _really_ notice, just how much beauty he was staring at. Eyes sparkled like a bright emerald lit by the flames of beauty itself. Green tendrils circled her pupil, filling up her iris with the adventure of life, hypnotising him with their depth. Her green eyes seemed the picture of perfection, slicing into one's soul whilst also showing the kind of gentle concern his mother used to show.

Her hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, and instead of flinching like he usually did, he was soothed by it. She left her hand there and spoke with such a soft voice, he felt the words calming him more by the way they were said than the actual words. It felt as if he were wrapped in a bubble of her shade and protection.

"You want to try that again or you want to go down to the workshop?" She asks, voice measured.

He looks out the huge window that situates beside his bed, a clear night illuminated only by the glint of starlight and the radiance of a bright moon, stared back at him.

"No, I-" he croaks as he looks back to her, voice raw from sleep. He clears his throat, coughing slightly, "I-I think I'm going to go down to the workshop now."

Natasha hauls him up gently by the shoulder, using brute force as he was leaning on to her like his life depended on it.

After steadying his swaying body, they both trek towards the workshop. Natasha trailing behind him, in case he fell and she was required as a provision of aid.

Once they rounded the corner to the workshop doors, Tony turned on his heels to face her, deceptively blocking the entrance to the workshop doorway.

"You, uh-" he stutters, hand scratching behind his neck, clearing his throat before carrying on, "you don't have to stay."

She furrows her brows sceptically, taking in his stuttering and his nervous gestures. The way his eyes betray his words, completely contrary to what he wants.

"No," she declares, crossing her arms as a stray hair falls loose on her cheek,

"I'm not leaving you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come!


End file.
